A warm, cinnamon aroma filled the air, reminding Rachel of her Kishinev home, where her mother had served sour cream cake almost every Saturday night.
“But your name!” gasped Nucia. “Your parents gave you your name.”
“It was my grandfather’s name,” said Menahem.
“You see?” said Nucia. “I’m sure he would be hurt if he knew you wanted to give up his name.”
“But he’s dead.” Menahem spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if were describing the weather. “How would he know?”
Rachel’s mouth twitched with amusement. Mr. Bloom laughed into a linen square.
“I don’t think you understand, Menahem,” said Jacob. “It’s a very big decision, changing your name. And it would be expensive, changing your documents.”
“I don’t care if my name stays the same on paper,” said Menahem with an earnest face that made him look older than his nine years. “I just want to have an American name.”
“Do you have a name in mind?” asked Rachel.
“The fellows call me Marty,” he replied.
“Marty,” said Rachel. She chewed a piece of chicken and swallowed. “It kind of suits you.”
The color faded from Nucia’s face. “You mean, people are already using this name?”
Menahem nodded with exuberance. “Even the teacher.” He stuffed a potato in his mouth.
“It would be hard to think of you as anyone but Menahem,” said Jacob.
“It would be all right if you forget sometimes,” said Menahem. “Just so long as it’s not in front of my friends.”
Mr. Bloom snorted into the back of his hand. “It’s not so unusual for people to change their names here in America,” he said to Nucia and Jacob. “Why, off the top of my head, I can count five people I know.” He sat back in his chair and patted his big belly.
Mrs. Bloom rose from the table and filled the kettle with water for tea.
“Some of the names people arrive with are too long or too difficult for Americans to say,” Mr. Bloom continued.
“So you think we should let Menahem become Marty?” said Jacob to Mr. Bloom.
“It is not my place to tell you what to do,” Mr. Bloom replied. “I just think you should know that it’s not an unusual decision.”
“What do you think?” Nucia asked Mrs. Bloom.
Mrs. Bloom sat and thought about Nucia’s question for a moment. “I think it’s important that the boy feels comfortable here, no?”
Nucia dabbed at her lips with a linen square. She lifted her troubled eyes to Menahem’s. “Would it be all right if I still called you Menahem, when we’re alone?”
“I don’t mind,” shrugged Menahem. “Just not around my friends.”
“I promise,” said Nucia. “Just when it’s the two of us.”
“I guess we’ll have to start calling you Marty, too,” said Mrs. Bloom. She stood to collect the empty plates.
Rachel and Nucia helped Mrs. Bloom gather the plates. They stacked them beside the basin and Nucia began washing the plates and cutlery while Rachel dried. Mrs. Bloom poured water into a teapot and started cutting thick slices of sour cream cake.
“I think you should give Menahem, I mean Marty, the biggest piece,” said Mr. Bloom to his wife. “He’s a growing boy.”
“Or two big pieces,” said Menahem, now known as Marty. “I think I feel a lot of growing inside me today.”
“Don’t be greedy, Menahem,” said Nucia.
Menahem eyed her expectantly.
“I mean Marty.”
Rachel laughed, along with everybody else. But later that night, when she tucked the boy into his improvised bed, she noticed how much he had changed since she first met him in Kishinev. She saw how the bones in his face were more prominent, how his eyes had taken on a permanent look of skepticism, how fear and tragedy had left their imprint on him. In a way, she felt as if she was saying good-bye to Menahem, to the little boy she knew in Russia. Though it saddened her, calling him Marty for the next chapter in his life made perfect sense.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Rachel yawned. It was after eight o’clock and raindrops pelted the window like stones. She recited the sentence written on the blackboard at the front of the room in the First Chinese Baptist Church, which held free English classes for new immigrants. Nucia sat in the desk beside her. Jacob, exhausted from his long day of delivering heavy barrels of food to stores, had remained at home with Marty.
The teacher, a plump woman with lemon-yellow hair tied in a severe bun and skin as white as cotton, asked Rachel to read the English sentence she had written on the blackboard.
“In the summer, fog comes in the afternoon,” Rachel said aloud.
“Do you understand what this means?” asked the teacher.
“Yes,” answered Rachel.
“Very good,” said the teacher with a satisfied smile.
Rachel took a deep breath and watched as the teacher wrote another sentence on the board. A scrawny young man with pockmarked skin read this one out loud, pausing between each word. “It does not snow in San Francisco.”
The teacher praised the man and asked the students if they liked snow. Rachel craned her neck to see if any of the twenty students would answer. The whole idea of voicing opinions in class still seemed odd to her. In Russia, teachers spoke and students listened. Personal views didn’t matter unless you were a grown man. To speak your mind as a student had not been acceptable.
“Nucia?” asked the teacher.
Nucia clenched her hands and blushed. “I miss the snow,” she said, her voice faltering between each word.
“And?” The teacher raised her brow.
“I like to slide down the hill of snow. It is fun.”
The teacher nodded and crossed her arms over her chest.
“I like to make balls of snow and throw them,” said Rachel, when the teacher looked at her.
Laughter rang out through the class and people began speaking excitedly, some in their own languages and others in English. Rachel listened to the people speaking English, pleased to find she understood what they were saying. Every day, after cleaning the Haas home, she poured over the newspaper, the San Francisco Call, with a dictionary she’d borrowed from Mrs. Bloom. At first, it had taken more than an hour to read and understand one article. Now, she could read three or four articles quite fast and only used the dictionary for big words.
“One at a time,” the teacher said, raising both arms like an orchestra conductor. The skin under her arms jiggled as she moved.
The laughter quieted.
“I like to skate on the river in the winter,” said a girl about the same age as Rachel.
Rachel’s stomach curdled. The image of Mikhail skating alone on the river that fateful day so long ago in Kishinev cut into her thoughts like a sword. She saw his pale face as he skated backwards, away from her. Later, when she returned to the river for her shawl, she had seen him being stabbed to death by a policeman. Mikhail lying in his own blood. Nausea gripped her throat and she grew pale.
“Rachel,” asked the teacher, “are you all right?”
Unable to speak, Rachel stood and ran out of the room. In the vestibule, she shook her head vigorously until the sound of Mikhail calling out for help finally diminished.
Nucia, who had run after Rachel, hugged her.
“Is it Mikhail?” Nucia asked Rachel.
“Yes,” whispered Rachel.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you so upset,” said Nucia with concern in her voice.
“Being here, so far from Kishinev, I don’t think about him often.”
Nucia nodded sympathetically. “Now I agree with you. We must put the past behind us. I promise I will try harder to accept the new ways here.”
Rachel threw her arms around her sister. “Just be the p
erson you want to be,” she whispered in Nucia’s ear.
4
Sergei Khanzhenkov
Barracks No. 6
Putilov Plant
47, Stachek Avenue
Petersburg, Russia
May 30, 1905
Dearest Sergei,
I haven’t heard any word from you. I’m terribly worried about you. This is the third letter I’ve written without a reply. I even sent a letter to your home in Kishinev, in case you are no longer at the factory in Petersburg.
In the newspaper, I’ve been reading about the worker uprisings in Russia. I am terrified you are involved. Please write, even if you can only manage one sentence. It would mean a lot to Menahem and to me.
As ever,
Rachel
P.S. Menahem has asked us to call him Marty now, an American name, so that he fits in better with his friends. It has been hard to think of him with a new name, but he is much happier. And we’re getting used to it.
Rachel handed her nickel to the conductor and sat down beside Marty on the electric streetcar. They were taking the Number One California Street Line, which traveled along the cliffs of Lands End. Jacob had earned a tidy profit during the week, selling food to five new shops, and was treating all of them to an excursion to the Sutro Baths, created by the Jewish engineer Adolph Sutro who had made his fortune in mining. Covering three acres, this was the world’s largest public bath house.
“We don’t have to sleep on this train, do we?” Marty asked Rachel in English. Since he spent five full days a week in school, he had made astounding progress with the language. Now, he and Rachel spoke only English to one another. And while it was still hard to think of him as Marty, when she met his friends—Dan, Mike, and Joe—she agreed that Menahem sounded out of place.
Jacob swiveled around in his seat in front of them. In his tan trousers, white shirt, and short hair, he looked as if he’d been born in America. Except for his thick Russian accent, when he spoke in English, which gave him away. “This will be the shortest train ride you’ve ever had, about thirty minutes, Menahem,” he said. Speaking to potential customers and to shop owners when he made deliveries, he had also become quite proficient in English.
“Marty,” corrected Menahem.
“Marty,” said Jacob, with a grin.
“It takes thirty minutes to get there,” said Rachel. “That’s how long it takes you to walk to school.”
Relief washed over Marty’s face.
Rachel recalled the weeks they had spent on the overcrowded, filthy train traveling through Russia on their way to the port of Vladivostok, where they caught the boat to Shanghai.
“It still seems like a long way to go to a bathhouse,” said Nucia, in a mix of Yiddish and English. She struggled with the new language, often resorting to Yiddish when she had a lot to say. She didn’t go to classes as much as Rachel, choosing to spend more time at home after work.
“This is no ordinary bathhouse,” said Jacob. “I’ve heard it can hold thousands of people.”
The train started to move west along California Street. Within minutes, Rachel caught a glimpse of the deep turquoise water of the Pacific Ocean. The air smelled of the sea—salty with a hint of fish.
Tall grass swayed in the breeze as they moved around the bay. Minutes later, grass gave way to rocks. The sea dropped as the electric car climbed higher amongst the cliffs that marked Lands End, the farthest western point of San Francisco. Admiring the view, Rachel forgot about her sore hands, with such dry skin that it had cracked and bled around her knuckles. Her tense neck and shoulder muscles, stiff from bending over floors, loosened slightly.
This is the first time in more than two years that I’ve done something fun. For a few hours today, I can relax and not worry about cleaning or money or learning English. I almost feel like the sixteen-year-old I am, not like an old, beaten-down lady.
“What’s that Rachel?”
Rachel jumped in her seat at the sound of Menahem’s—Marty’s—voice. She blinked and saw an imposing gate with an arched opening; the entrance to Sutro Heights and the Sutro Baths. The train jerked to a stop at Cabrillo Street. Rachel took Marty’s hand in hers and stepped down. Across the road stood a peanut vendor beside a black sign with white letters: “The Panorama of the World at Sutro Heights is one of the Most Interesting in America.” Elated at having the chance to see one of the most interesting views in America, Rachel glided toward the entrance. Verdant Monterey pine and cypress trees, sixty feet high, soared over them as they walked beneath the arch.
The wind had increased, blowing loose strands of Rachel’s hair into her face. She tried to tuck it behind her ear but it refused to stay put. Marty tugged at her arm. Jacob and Nucia trailed after them. The road lined the edge of the cliff. Only a chest-high railing kept people from falling down into the sea where waves thrashed around Seal Rocks. Egg-white sculptures, stony eyes facing the ocean, and giant palm trees were scattered boldly throughout the gardens, mingling Sutro’s love of grand European art with exotic California foliage.
Cliff House, a restaurant overlooking the sea, appeared below. Two automobiles were parked in front of the main door. The road wound upwards, leading them through extravagant grounds with more statues and carefully planted gardens that blazed in shades of yellow, orange, and red. Rachel felt as if she’d walked into a painting, a flawless vista that unfurled in front of her as far as she could see.
Rachel braced her knees as they made their way downhill toward a sprawling, glass-roofed building that housed the baths. Clumps of people hovered near the columned entrance. In the distance, a gigantic wheel stood against the sky.
“That’s a Ferris wheel,” said Jacob following her gaze. “People sit in it and it spins around.”
“I want to ride on it,” said Marty.
“Another day,” said Jacob.
Rachel squinted to get a better look at the Ferris wheel, relieved they weren’t going near it. Unlike automobiles, which stayed on the road, this huge wheel thrust people into the sky. She didn’t think she had the courage to ride it. But she did not want Jacob or Marty to know she was afraid.
Inside the building, Rachel found that they had the choice of an elevator or stairs down to the baths. Marty grabbed her hand and dragged her to the line for the elevator. But when the doors slid open, revealing a stark, windowless enclosure, Nucia protested, saying she would feel more comfortable using the staircase.
“Maybe we should go with Nucia and Jacob,” said Rachel to Marty. “We should stay together.”
“We’ll see them at the baths,” said Marty. “Come on! I want to see how fast this goes.”
Rachel turned to see if she could get some support from Jacob, but he and Nucia had already left for the stairs. Marty pulled her with him onto the already crowded elevator. The doors slid shut with an ominous thud. Rachel grew queasy as the elevator plunged downwards. What if the ropes attaching the elevator to the building break? What if there are too many people in it?
Rachel dug her hands into Marty’s shoulders until the elevator stopped abruptly. The doors opened and Rachel relaxed her grip. Marty twisted his neck and gave her a perplexed look.
“Were you scared?” he asked Rachel.
They stepped out of the elevator.
“Oh, no,” she replied, feigning self-assurance. “I just wanted to make sure you knew I was right behind you.”
They waited at the foot of the stairs for Jacob and Nucia.
“Are you all right, Rachel?” asked Nucia when they appeared. “Your face is a bit pale.”
“I’m fine,” she replied. “Just excited about the baths.”
Together again, they merged with the flock of people moving past a café to the promenade overlooking six saltwater pools—five small and one large. A massive glass roof let in light, leaving the pool area bright and airy. Bleachers sur
rounded the pools; hundreds of spectators lounged in swimming trunks and towels, watching the bathers and chatting. Shrieks of joy pierced the briny air.
“It’s so big,” said Jacob.
“Unbelievable,” Nucia responded.
Rachel counted seven slides and thirty swinging rings, mobbed by swimmers of all ages. There were several dressing rooms on the pool level and two sets of stairs at opposite ends. Her heart leapt with anticipation.
“I don’t know if I dare to go in,” murmured Nucia. “The pools are so crowded, and there are so many men.”
“I haven’t come all this way to turn around,” said Rachel. “At the baths, all are equal. Remember, Nucia? That’s what Father used to say.”
“Let’s go!” Marty scampered over to the stairs at the corner of the pavilion, followed by Rachel.
“Wait for me,” called out Jacob. He grabbed Nucia’s hand and ran after them.
After changing into a one-piece black swimsuit, provided by staff in the female dressing room, Rachel plunged into the nearest pool. The warm salt water stung her eyes. She raised her head above the surface and spat out the water.
Nucia, sitting on the deck with her feet dangling in the water, laughed. Rachel splashed her sister’s face until Nucia jumped in and flapped her arms, splattering Rachel back.
For a little while, Rachel felt as carefree as a child. She wished she could feel this way every day, or at least once a week.
“Some day, when I make money as a journalist, I’ll bring us here often,” she said to Nucia, as they swam beside one another.
Nucia stood in the chest-deep water. “I envy you for your big dreams. All I ever think about is Jacob making enough money, so that I don’t have to clean the Haas home anymore. Then I can take care of all of you the way Mother did.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” said Rachel, also standing. “As long as you’re happy, that’s what matters. Sometimes, I wish that I didn’t have such huge dreams. What if I fail?”
“You mustn’t think that way,” said Nucia. “I know you’ll get what you want. Don’t give up.”
Rachel's Hope Page 4